In Another World
by PepSquee777
Summary: Despite it being perfectly overdone, I've taken my own shot at Slytherin-Harry... With a bit of a catch. Rated just in case.
1. Prelude

_**In Another World **__  
Prelude_

The story of The-Boy-Who-Lived is one well-known, and rather well-liked. People will forever know Harry Potter as a heroic Gryffindor, a lovely man, and an honorable dare-devil that saved millions.

It is true, of course, the story; and the description. _Your _Harry Potter was, to tell the truth, precisely what you'd expect from a hero.

But, somewhere, deep down through a dozen dimensions, there is another world, and another England, and another Harry Potter. And this Harry Potter is not anything like yours. Not at all; not nearly. My friend, this Harry Potter is _not_ your Boy-Who-Lived.


	2. Chapter One

_**In Another World  
**__Chapter One_

Let's say there's a mirror. You're in a room very familiar to you, as you've lived there your whole life, and in front of you, there is a body-length mirror. The mirror is tall, yes, but nothing grand, the bottom riddled with odd cracks and the top covered in dust. Though you cannot see it, on the back, there is mold. And let's say you look at your reflection, from the tips of your hair to the soles of your feet—but you feel very conflicted. You can easily admit that you're rather good-looking (you've always had and loved your vibrant green eyes), but the man you've acquired most of your looks from was _ugly. Hideous. Revolting…__**Arrogant. **_And you'd have to say you're rather full of yourself, too, as you cannot seem to find the desire to look away. You, friend, are in Harry Potter's shoes now. His new, shiny black shoes, nice and sleek for this special occasion; you'll find out soon enough.

Harry attempted to flatten his unruly dark hair in futile efforts, glaring at his reflected messy locks in distaste. His hair was one of the many things that seemed to forever keep him confused. The one he—_ahem_—rather admired—_heh_—had always loved his untamed hair, teasing him and playing fingers through his hair and over his scalp, and that in itself gave him a good amount of satisfaction. But, this hair had once belongs to someone else—had been the trademark of the ugly, hideous, revolting man. Running his hands through his locks with a cold expression on his face, Harry gave up hope on fixing the mess. After so many years, you'd think he'd have learned. _Heh_.

Ignoring the sound of the bedroom door—as there was only one in the small home—opening and then closing again, he fiddles with his wrinkled old button-up. It fit in some places and did not in others; he was certain this was a girls' shirt or something. Also was he certain that he'd somehow managed to button it wrong. Was it truly lopsided, or were his eyes just screw-y from the vague nervousness—today was the day after all, and he only ever went to Uncle Malfoy's manor this time of year. But not this year. No, never again. The bed creaked with the weight of a man suddenly and Harry glanced over to him—not to know who was there, it was only the two, after all—with a low sigh.

"Are you ready, Potter?" The man perched on the bed had a cold, near-silent murmur of a voice. "You've packed all your bags? Everything?"

He answered in a voice as close to the man's as he'd ever managed to make it, "Of course. I'm not so inept that I cannot complete such a simple task, especially with you breathing down my neck about it every other waking moment. Do _not_ mistake me a fool." You probably think Harry's little speech was odd—the way he'd worded it all. And as did he; that's why he spoke as such. It made him feel refined and important, and it sounded nothing like _he_ used to speak.

But, despite his trying to not become _him_, it still happened.

With a vague shudder, Harry watched the man's face. He'd never quite liked the cruel smile playing upon the man's thin lips at that moment—at so many moments. He wished the man would stop. Smile like a normal person. Stop being such a butt-trumpet. "Don't be so arrogant, boy," _There's that word again. That horrid, pathetic word that linked him to his stupid, disgusting, ungrateful, bratty, good-for-nothing, piece of—_"Or I may mistake you for your father."

He looked back to the long mirror, clenched hands shaking against his screwy shirt, face red. His green eyes seemed ablaze with fury. _How dare him. _Of course, Harry knew that the man just wanted to hear him say it _How dare he compare me to that __fiend__. _He'd never _really_ want or wanted to hurt Harry. And knowing that, he managed to spit out exactly what the man wanted to hear.

"_You're_ my father, Severus. You've always been."

Severus Snape hasn't _technically _always been his father, though it seemed he had; though Harry wished he had. For ten years, Severus took tender care of him, hating the man from which Harry had been given his face, but forever loving the woman with his eyes. Severus has always loved Lily Evans, the beautiful—inside and out—girl that filthy James Potter had stolen from him before he'd even had a chance.

Severus' cruel lips drooped back to the apathetic line it nearly always seemed to be, but his dark eyes smiled well enough. Ruffling his godson's messy black hair, Severus smiled with those eyes down at him, and Harry was filled with adoration for this man. He was not James Potter, thank goodness, and was certainly more a father than James ever could have hoped to be.

"Let's go then, son." said Severus. _Son. Much better, thank you._ "We wouldn't want to miss the train for your first day at Hogwarts."  
_**  
SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN**_

Harry Potter sat in a relatively-empty compartment with his best friend, drinking in that angelic voice at though, without it, he wouldn't live to see another day. In his heart, he felt he would not. The owner of this beautiful voice was his everything; his son and the stars, the moon and the sky. He breathed in that voice, as it was his oxygen.

Whereas he was not genetically related to his godfather, there was one thing, if any, that had been passed down from Severus; his completely undeniable ability with all his heart and soul to _love_. Indeed, true and pure, he would forever be entranced by that voice. He would forever be devoted to those petal-pink cheeks, bright again such milky skin. He would forever be lost in those big, stormy grey eyes…

"Harry! Are you even _listening _to me?"

"No." You cannot build a relationship with lies, after all.

Those petal-pink lips—they matched his cheeks ever so beautifully—pouted, while thin, white-blonde eyebrows creased in the middle.

He would forever be in love with Draco Lucius Malfoy, the most conceited, spoiled, bratty little by that ever walked the planet. And he would say that to anyone who dared to ask, unashamed.

Harry could only smile in return. "Repeat yourself, then. Don't be shy."

"I'm _not_ shy! You. Shut. Your. Dirty. Mouth!" In order to emphasize this, he popped Harry softly on the mouth with his smallish, snow-white hand. Draco's drawl became more of a while as he continued, "But, as I was relating something _very_ sensitive and _hard_ to relive, I'd rather not say it again."

Young Mr. Potter could not bare to see those beautiful eyes so moist. Seeing tears in his love's eyes made his own begin to prickle. He took Draco's delicate hand in his own, kissing the pale fingertips there. (_I never said his love was a secret, after all.) _He could not ignore the bright pink scars barely visibly on the pale digits. From trying to protect himself, Harry supposed, his tongue covered in a sort-of bitter taste.

"I'm sorry, Draco. You just distracted me is all."

Harry watched in finely-concealed amusement as one pretty blond brow made a slow ascent upwards, eyelids drooping unamusedly [1]. "I distracted you from myself?" The drawl was back; ten-fold.

Again, he could only help but smile, the superior expression turning is stomach to mushy mush. "You know you're pretty."

The pretty pink petals turned to beautiful flowers, and oh, how those flowers _bloomed_! Draco's stormy eyes swam in upmost delight. The superior expression seemed to falter, so Draco crossed his arms and as well his ankles ever delicately [2], pointed nose in the air. Sparkling silver eyes flickered away, and Harry saw those pretty pink lips twitch. "Do I now?" he queried, an oddly evil pout set on his lips. Oh, he knew all right.

"I can only imagine you would." _Say sweet things. Kiss his fingertips._ He'd never known where these whispers in his mind truly started, but he was better off not ignoring them. "You _are_ so clever, after all. Anyone _half _as smart as you can see so _obviously_ that you-"

The compartment door swung open suddenly, and Draco's delighted eyes turned to ice. His voice was chilling as he looked up and snapped, "_What!_"

The girl in the doorway, brown eyes wide and shocked, looked rather affronted. Her bushy brown hair was on end like a cat's, and her lips were slightly parted, caught off guard by Draco's anger, and Harry saw a glimpse of buck-teeth. She quickly composed her surprise and glared haughtily at Draco. Like Harry's beloved, she stuck her own rounded button nose up in the air and said in a business-like manner, "A boy named Neville has lost his toad, and I was just _wondering_ if-"

"No, we haven't seen any bloody toad! Now leave us or I'll turn you into one!

Draco obviously did not have the knowledge nor the power to do that, but the message came across quite the same, and the girl that reminded Harry very greatly of a squirrel stomped off, Harry following her as she left to close the compartment door behind her. Along again; just how Harry liked it.

_Huff!_ "The _nerve_ of some people, I swear! I bet my bottom Galleon that girl was a mudblood. Any _true_ wizard would-"

Harry's next move was rather surprising, given what all you know of his love for the pretty blond. You see, the word _mudblood_ is a very _dirty_ word in the Wizarding World—whether it be yours' or mine—and should not be used, no matter how arrogant or "superior to muggles" one maybe; not in my opinion, at least, and certainly not in Harry's.

He dropped his love's feminine digits and-

_SMACK!_

Harry Potter back-handed Draco Malfoy right upside the face, like he was a common whore.

_**SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN SLYTHERIN**_

[1] I think I totally made that word up or something. Wasn't in my "dictionary" on Microsoft. Oh well.

[2] like a woman :D hurr hurr


End file.
